Sport 39: 2011
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It began in a small izakaya not far from the Shibuya metro.
At dusk Kurosawa took a jug of hot water and dribbled it into an earthenware cup at the bottom of which lay a spoonful of powder somewhat the colour of dried blood.
He added a few drops of colourless tincture.
‘The key,’ he said, with a certain pride. ‘From the common herb known as Reminiscence. The poet describes it. Davallia bullata.’
‘Even the weedy Reminiscences are dead.’
‘Precisely, yes! It might be omitted (you could still admire the scenery). But I hope you’re feeling strong, my friend, for these cunning alkaloids know where you live! They will visit you there with their tender addresses. You do understand, we’re not going dancing?’
The baleful liquor burned my throat.
The barkeep laughed. Kampai, he said.
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